


Fingertips

by lumbeam



Series: The Journey Itself Is Home [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Drawing, Guilt, Hands, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 22:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: Arthur stops for the night on his journey of hunting down the duelists for Jim "Boy" Calloway and tries to draw Charles. Yearning ensues.





	Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to get this all down, I've been thinking about it for the past few days :) Charles/Arthur good. Pining is good. I love....tenderness.
> 
> ENJOY!

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been riding.  
  
In a way, it was incredibly freeing. Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a trip this far out. Hell, probably since before Blackwater. Sure, maybe what he was doing was a fool’s errand - tracking down old duelists for an alcohol-soaked nobody -- but he took this opportunity to find some solace in the chaos. “‘M goin’ out,” he said to Dutch probably a couple of days ago. “Gonna hunt some sharpshooters for some guy’s book.”

Dutch huffed out a laugh, coughing on his cigar smoke. “Okay, son, don’t get yourself killed.” The way he said it sounded like he didn’t believe Arthur, but he let him go all the same. He packed up his supplies and rode out without any fanfare; this was just a job. A strange job, but nothing worthy of having the camp worry about him.  
  
After Blackwater, he stayed close to the camp, assisting in menial tasks like moving around bales of hay to the horses, refilling the water trough, feeding the chickens. He also learned how to use a bow and arrow thanks to Charles while they were up in the mountains. Really, the only person he’d could have learned using a bow from was Charles. He spoke softly, emphasizing the stillness of the hunter. He had the patience for it, which helped Arthur in slowing down in his methods. So often, he shot from the hip without much preamble. With a bow, he could take a breath and line up the quickest method of execution. They killed two deer that day, making Pearson’s soup slightly more edible. 

  
Whenever he used his bow now, he couldn’t help but think about Charles’ level tone guiding him through the motions.

Arthur slowed his horse down to a trot, scoping out a place to camp out. The sun was just starting to disappear beyond the mountains, leaving a pink tinged landscape. For a moment, Arthur considered taking a picture of the scene, or even drawing what he saw, but he knew neither could replicate what was right in front of him. Normally, he didn’t get too caught up in the landscape, instead choosing to be on high alert for the distant sounds of gunshots or the growls of mountain lions, but maybe this long ride had lowered his inhibitions. He stopped his horse next to a large boulder, deciding it was good enough for the night. That was the thing about the plains; there weren’t many places to hide. Not that he _ had _ to hide. Either way, he’d be sleeping with his revolver right beside his bedroll. 

He dismounted, groaning at the pain from sitting on his horse for the better part of a day. His sit bones and inner thighs ached like someone took a meat tenderizer to them. He made a note to buy some pants with extra seat padding at the general store. Hopefully they had some for less than seven dollars, as that’s all that was to his name right now. He donated what he could to the camp, maybe too much. Dutch kept talking about getting close with the Braithwaites _ and _ the Greys, those two hick plantation families. Talking of this alleged secret Braithwaite family treasure. Arthur thought it was all bullshit, but kept his mouth shut whenever Dutch started spinning his wheel. He’d been in the Van der Linde gang long enough to know that it was better not to say anything than to talk back to Dutch. It had worked for him for more than half his life, which was strange to think about.

He scrounged up some kindling and dead logs, at least what he could find around him. It was kind of slim pickings. He grumbled, walking around the vicinity of his makeshift campground. He was losing light fast, so he walked as fast as his sore legs could take him. Too painful to run. Just as the sun had descended behind the mountains, giving way for the stars above to come out, Arthur had found the bare minimum for making a campfire. The fire would probably last for a couple of hours; enough time to cook his food and mark where the first duelist was. He sifted through his satchel, pulling out a slab of venison wrapped in wax paper. 

Sure enough, he’d used his bow to hunt down the doe. As he skinned the deer, taking care to use what he could, he thought of Charles. 

He made a rub with dried rosemary and some sage, then cooked the slab on the end of his knife. He kept having to readjust the meat because it kept slipping on the blade. Deciding that the meat was cooked enough (and his arm was getting tired of holding the meat over the fire), he ate his meal off of his knife. Maybe it was “uncivilized” to eat things like this, although Arthur was never much for civilization anyway. Besides, plates and silverware would just make his satchel even more heavy.  
  
He washed down his venison (which wasn’t too bad, if he said so himself) with some water from his canteen. It tasted like tin, and he wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant taste. It was either that or whiskey, which--

After screwing his canteen closed, he got out his bottle of whiskey. He uncapped it and took a swig, letting the sting of the drink melt into numbness in his mouth. He found the cards of the people he had to find. The closest one to him was near Flatneck Station. Some pig farmer. Arthur took another swig and marked it on his map with his pencil. He’ll probably make it there around mid-afternoon. Then onto the next one. He folded up his map and tucked the cards back into his satchel, instead pulling out his notebook. He figured he had about an hour until the fire died out, which was plenty of time to sketch out some of the things he’d seen on this quest. He quickly sketched out what was in front of him--his horse, the crackling campfire, the crescent moon outlining the ridges of the mountains--although as he suspected earlier, it was only a cheap imitation of the real thing, especially without having any colors with him as well. Maybe, when he had a bit more money on him, he could invest in some pastels. 

He flipped the page and loosely sketched some birds he saw, a snake that nearly threw him off his horse. Arthur had found that it was harder to get everything just right through his memory. It was aggravating; trying to remember the specificities over how many spots were on the snake, or if the bird had a red accent or an orange accent on his chest. It was better, more calming, for him to sketch the things that were right in front of him. Otherwise, as it seemed to be the case tonight, he was left with a bunch of vague bird and snake-shaped drawings. 

He took another swig of the whiskey and flipped the page. This was supposed to help him _ wind down _ for the night, but he only seemed to get more annoyed. He took a breath (and a sip of whiskey) and thought about the things he could draw from memory. 

He thought of his horse. Of his old dog. Of his father’s hat. Of his gun. 

Of Mary.

Of Charles.

He re-adjusted himself against the boulder, groaning at his leg soreness, then focused his attention back on the page. The liquor had made his vision a little blurred at the edges, but he felt warm. Comfortable, save for his legs. He exhaled, starting to sketch. 

In his journeys and tasks with Charles, there was a different mood in the air. No snide comments, no angry tirades. Just a quietness that Arthur had never experienced with anyone else in the camp. Everyone was always _ talking_. Sure, he and Charles talked, but never with a rushed urgency that he got with John or Dutch. Even with Hosea it was business as usual. With Charles, he felt no need to talk sometimes. On longer treks, Charles would talk of his mother, of his tribe. As usual, it was best for Arthur to just listen. He always spoke so _ calmly _. As they rode along, Arthur couldn’t help but notice his dark hair as it shimmered in the sun. No pencil in the world was dark enough to get Charles’ hair just right. He pressed the graphite so far down onto the paper he was worried it would go through the page. Nothing could ever make his hair look as silky as it was in reality, but Arthur was damned sure going to try. 

Whenever there was a tense shootout about to happen, he would wait for Charles to give the signal. He flicked his eyes between Charles and the target, although more recently he felt like needing to try to hide his glances. As if his eyes were to meet his, he would know in that instant.  
  
Arthur stopped drawing Charles’ hair for a moment.  
  
Know _ what_, exactly?  
  
What he felt wasn’t the same as what he felt with Mary. It was...different. With Mary, when he looked at her, it felt like his stomach was burning from the inside out. Even seeing her after all these years, the feeling returned like a wildfire. Then, as she looked at him before getting on the train sighing, “Oh, you’ll never change,” it put out the fire with an ocean. But, who knew how he’d feel if she came back around to him…

Charles, though. The feeling when he looked at him was different. A nervous feeling, almost. Sort of the feeling he got when a fish would tug on the line. Or when he had to sneak around an O’Driscoll’s camp. There were many times where Arthur would catch himself _ staring _ at Charles for much too long. Charles would turn his head, just enough to catch Arthur’s eyes with his peripherals, then Arthur would get the feeling of his ears getting hot. The nervousness would crackle through his veins, down to the pit of his gut. 

He wasn’t sure how to define this feeling. These _ feelings_. He’d never really felt them towards...well, towards a man. But Charles, he reasoned, wasn’t any man.   
  
He continued to sketch the outlines of Charles’ face, his flat nose, his dark eyes. Again, the graphite could only do so much in assisting the deepness of his skin tone. He went over the lines of Charles’ face again, ending the linework at the lightning-shaped scar on his cheek. Arthur never asked where he got the scar. Hell, he had more than enough scars to illustrate his foolish fights with men much stronger than him, back before Dutch took him in. He figured that mark was of a similar story.  
  
Sure, he could ask him. It’s not that Charles would deny him the story. But, again, it’s better to just wait. And listen.

Arthur sunk down onto his bedroll, his head propped up with his non-dominant arm. He sketched at the same lines aimlessly, then he decided to move onto Charles’ hands.

His hands.

Too soft for this lifestyle, yet tough enough to leave a mark. Charles touched him before, sure. A couple of light pats on the shoulder, or helping him up after he fell, but nothing that could be mistaken for anything but friendly.

At least, not until last week. 

It was during the long meandering trail to find Trelawny, that slippery weasel who loved to talk until the sun went down. Where Charles and Arthur had to find the bounty hunters through the tall stalks of corn. The last guy proved hard to find, culminating in him ambushing Arthur. He wrapped a rope around his neck, splitting into Arthur’s thumbs. He felt the rope start to press in on his neck. His vision went black. “You have my friend,” he heard Charles say. The man offered him a lot of money to let him kill Arthur. Charles threw a throwing knife into the guy’s eye, releasing Arthur from his demise. 

He scrambled up off the ground, gasping for air. “You should have taken the money,” he rasped. 

“I know,” Charles smirked. “I’m a fool.” His eyes dipped down to Arthur’s hand rubbing at his neck. “Are you okay?” 

He stopped rubbing at his throat, examining his hand for blood. No blood. A burning feeling, however. 

Charles got closer. He lifted his hand and pressed it to Arthur’s neck, just to the left of his Adam’s apple. The press of his fingers on his skin almost caused the burns to cease in that moment, like a salve. “Looks like you got some rope burn.”

Pulling away from the touch, Arthur cleared his throat. Even just the rumbling of his vocal chords hurt. “I’ll be fine.” Sounds of gunfire erupted from across the field. It seemed to be coming from the barn. “Looks like we ain’t done here.”

Charles loaded his revolver. “Are we ever?” Then took off towards the barn.

Arthur blinked a few times, escaping the memory. He’d thought about that light touch more times than he could count, given it more consideration and care than he could ever write down in his notebook. Even though the book was for his own personal records, he couldn’t write something like _ that _ into it. A moment so tender and private that even writing it down would be too much. He’d kept that moment stored in the back of his mind. His heart was racing in that moment, and not even he could entirely blame it on the near-death experience. Those were a dime-a-dozen these days, but the touch…

He looked down at his sketch of Charles. Not done in the slightest. He only finished drawing his left hand, the hand that Charles touched him with. 

The campfire was about to go out. Arthur figured that was a sign. He shut his notebook, pencil marking the page where he left off. 

He rolled onto his back, looking at the stars. A familiar sight, but beautiful all the same. Sighing, he absentmindedly touched to the left of his neck. Then, in that moment of looking at the stars and thinking about last week in the field, Arthur got an idea. 

Maybe a dumb idea, but he was full of those. Nothing new there.

He untucked his button-up shirt and unbuckled his pants.

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he _ relieved _ himself like this. Living in an open air camp didn’t really allow much by the way of secrecy. Someone was always up, walking around, making a commotion, getting in Arthur’s business. Privacy was a foreign word to Arthur, maybe to the entirety of the Van der Linde gang. He could barely even take a piss without worrying about someone calling out to him. If he had to guess the last time he did this, it might have been before the disaster at Blackwater. Weeks, maybe even a _ month_. Being able to sneak away and have some time to his thoughts, to _ these _thoughts, was a rarity nowadays.

He absentmindedly palmed at his union suit. It was threadbare, providing just enough warmth for the brisk night. His mind started to wander. 

What if he _ hadn’t _ pulled away from Charles’ touch? His breathing stuttered at the thought. If only two fingertips could cause this much of a stir in him, he could barely imagine how he’d be if a whole _ hand _ was pressing gently on his throat. 

He unbuttoned his undergarment, finally getting a hand on himself. His calloused hands were rough on him, so he ungracefully spit into his palm before continuing. He shut his eyes, chasing the feeling.  
  
Gone were the Braithwaites and the Greys. Gone was the gunfire, the threat of danger. It was just him and Charles, standing in that field. 

_ “Are you okay?” Charles asked, pressing his fingers against Arthur’s neck. He didn’t pull away this time. _

_ “Yeah, I -- I think so,” Arthur said foolishly, still not sure how to react. He felt Charles’ hand slide to the back of his neck. “‘M glad you didn’t take the money.” _

_ “Me too,” Charles muttered pulling Arthur closer. Their lips touch, if only for a moment. Feather light and gentle-- _

Arthur’s eyes snapped open. He felt strange, this exposed out in the wilderness. He put his non-busy hand over his face, embarrassed to even be doing this. He kept going, despite the hotness rising in his cheeks.

_ After their lips brushed together, Arthur looked at Charles. Charles’ eyes search his face, his expression growing worried. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I didn’t--” His explanation was cut off due to Arthur resuming the kiss, deeper this time. His hands holding either side of his face, his fingertips pressing into his scar. He didn’t want to let go. _  
_  
_Feeling Charles’ hands slope down Arthur’s shoulder only emboldened him to explore elsewhere. His fingers ran through his hair, as silky as he imagined it would be. 

_ This time, Charles broke the kiss. With Arthur’s hands grabbing at his pale blue shirt, he moved his way down to his neck, kissing around the area of where the rope strangled him. _

Arthur moaned into his hand, embarrassed to even be making that much noise. He furrowed his brow, his hand moving faster.

_ “Is this okay?” Charles asked, his lips brushing against his neck. Arthur choked out a “yes,” and he kept going. He started to bite along his neck, almost as if he wanted to make marks over the trauma that just happened. He sucked at Arthur’s neck. Arthur kept his hands balled up in Charles’ shirt, too shaken to move them. Charles moved back to Arthur’s lips, his hands moving downwards. Arthur felt Charles’ hand move onto his cock-- _

Arthur groaned loudly, spilling onto his knuckles. He kept his other hand over his eyes. His breathing steadied. He wiped his messy hand into the dirt next to his bedroll. He finally opened his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the scenery again. He piled more dirt onto his mess, making it a small hill. He wiped his hands on his thighs, then buttoned up his union suit. After tugging up his pants and buttoning them again, he sat up. 

He wasn’t sure what to make sense of what just happened. It felt nice, _ really nice, _ but...disrespectful. Charles was just his _ friend _, he wasn’t _ like that _ to Arthur. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve, groaning. It was too damn late to be thinking about things like this. 

After putting his notebook away (and definitely _ not _ taking a look at his sketch of Charles), he laid back down. Turning to his side, he tried to think of his journey tomorrow, but all he could think about were those corn fields and the sounds of distant crows.


End file.
